


The Jean Prouvaire Interlude

by orphan_account



Series: young adult friction [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, la mer qu'on voit danser, tw: mentions of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:49:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He would tap his fingers against the steering wheel, sing <i>Padam Padam</i> and <i>La Mer</i> quietly to himself, and breathe in the country breeze, refreshing in the heat of a French summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jean Prouvaire Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyrahus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrahus/gifts).



> In case anyone has been wondering about [a face cast for all of these idiots](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com/post/48210013628/the-barricade-boys), basically I'm going with the movie cast.

Back when they still lived in Paris, there were days when Jehan would wake up with the sun, quietly leave the others snoring, make his way silently into the kitchen, and pick up the car keys that he knows will have been left on the kitchen table.

He would take the car and go for a drive into the countryside, passing through the rural towns of northern France and into Picardy, Édith Piaf and Charles Trenet quietly playing from the old stereo. He would tap his fingers against the steering wheel, sing _Padam Padam_ and _La Mer_ quietly to himself, and breathe in the country breeze, refreshing in the heat of a French summer.

By the time it’s late morning and everyone else has risen, they start a frantic search for Jehan. Combeferre curses when he sees his car keys are missing, but of course Jehan’s cellphone has been strategically turned off and left on the bed, so they can’t even call to find out where he is.

Jehan stops at a tiny café for lunch and orders herbal tea and a sandwich. He watches children playing in the street, and smiles to himself. He flirts unknowingly with the pretty young waitress, and leaves her a pretty verse on the napkin.

He continues driving, stopping whenever he sees the distinctive walled cemeteries with their white crosses and poppies. Each time he stops, he pulls out his notebook and a bunch of hand-picked wild flowers. Jehan is a firm believer in leaving plant life where it is, but when it comes to the graves of the fallen, he can’t help but think that these flowers wouldn’t mind to be placed here in memoriam.

He walks up and down the rows, places flowers among the graves, reads the headstones, and allows himself to weep quietly for these men who he never knew. Then he sits down in any available shade, and begins composing poems. He does his for about an hour in each cemetery he visits, until the day grows darker and his stomach rumbles with lack of food.

Carefully tearing out the poems he has composed, he places them under pebbles and leaves them against the graves of those whose names have been lost in the mud and cries of battle, those that only say _A Soldier of the Great War._

He drives back to the nearest town, buys himself a light dinner, and makes sure to visit the church, if there is one. There, he will bow his head for a moment in prayer, and make sure to leave 5 euros in the collection box.

When he arrives back home, exhausted and a little melancholy, Combeferre’s gas tank filled up to maximum again, he is greeted with the indignant shouts of his friends, and the occasional comforting hand on his shoulder.

He answers none of their questions, but drags himself up to his bedroom and locks the door behind him, ignoring Enjolras’ insistent tapping on the wooden frame.

It’s not until the third time his happens that the others understand to leave Jehan alone, to let him have these days of peace and solitude.

One day Courfeyrac asks if he can come with him. Jehan smiles kindly, but his answer is firm. He cannot let anyone else come with him.

Eventually they leave France, and the others realise years later that they never did find out what those days of solitude were for. But in the end, as Courfeyrac said, _Does it really matter? Jehan is Jehan, and Jehan will do as he pleases._

Jehan wraps one hand around Courfeyrac’s and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Once I imagined Jehan sitting in a quiet WWI cemetery in France, writing poems as the poppies blow in the breeze, [La Mer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fd_nopTFuZA) playing in the background.
> 
> And then I wrote this.
> 
> [anyone up for a Les Mis WWI au à la _A Farewell to Arms_ or _All Quiet on the Western Front?_ Because now I want it.]
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading/Merci de lire.
> 
> For fic notes, drabbles, questions and possible spin offs, hit me up at [tumblr](http://combeferresque.tumblr.com).


End file.
